


Equilibrium

by mangochi



Series: Last Watch [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Drinking & Talking, M/M, Still Pre-Slash but getting closer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 08:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14808236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi
Summary: “You ever kissed another man, W’Kabi?” Erik asks, as out of the blue as a rock from the heavens. If W’Kabi were made of less stern stuff, he would’ve choked.





	Equilibrium

**Author's Note:**

> Someone described the last fic i wrote as "w'kabi/erik god's-own-country-esque vibes" as honestly that's pretty much most of the fics I have planned for this series.

“You ever kissed another man, W’Kabi?” Erik asks, as out of the blue as a rock from the heavens. If W’Kabi were made of less stern stuff, he would’ve choked.

“Why do you ask?” W’Kabi asks, in return. It is a perfectly reasonable question, considering that only moments before, they were discussing the new feeding schedule for the growing calves. They are freshly weaned now, and ready to begin training with the younger warriors. W’kabi has half a mind to let Erik attempt some of it himself.

Erik scowls and pulls away his contraband whiskey when W’Kabi reaches for the bottle. “Answer the damn question first.”

W’Kabi pauses, hand still outstretched between them, and weighs his options. The two of them have reached a careful...understanding, of sorts, over the past months. It is an inevitable thing, when working so closely for so long. He hesitates to call it a friendship- or anything at all.

With this understanding comes certain unspoken rules, one of which is a certain allowance of personal privacy. What they know of each other now was freely given, a tacit acknowledgment of this fragile trust. Another rule is that whatever comes to pass between them on these nights spent drinking on the hilltops bordering the village, they do not speak of again once the sun rises.

“I have,” W’Kabi eventually answers. He manages to snag the bottle then, taking a larger mouthful than usual before setting it back down on the grass between them. He feels it burn on his tongue and throat, prickling at the back of his eyes. It seems as if he will need it tonight.

Erik fidgets and huffs beside him, and W’Kabi tries not to grow impatient. “So it’s...just a thing here.”

“If this is more of your American nonsense, I am going to need more of this,” W’Kabi tells him dryly, and he picks up the bottle again. He is two swallows in when Erik speaks again, a low mutter under his breath.

“T’Challa’s a kisser, huh.”

W’Kabi chokes. It is not a pretty affair. He splutters and holds the bottle away from him, his chin dripping, and coughs loudly as Erik continues.

“Knew he was a hugger already, can’t get away from him without getting one, but the kissing thing? Kinda fucking weird, even for him.” Erik’s face scrunches in memory, and W’Kabi finally regains the ability to breathe.

“T’Challa is hardly normal,” W’Kabi says. His throat hurts, and his voice grates roughly in his own ears. He puts the bottle down and scrubs a hand over his mouth, his eyes still watering. “Where...was it, exactly, that he kissed you?”

“On the goddamn cheek, W’Kabi, where did you th-” Erik cuts himself off, makes a strangled noise of horror, and pounds his fist hard enough against W’Kabi’s back that he nearly starts coughing again. “What the _fuck_ , don’t make me imagine that shit!”

“You could’ve led with that,” W’Kabi snaps, shoving at him. He is surprised by the degree of his own relief, a brief wave of cold sobriety sweeping over him. “I was beginning to think I should start planning for your funeral. The Jabari lord would snap you in half.”

“I could take him,” Erik says, with the recklessness of a man far more drunk than he believes. He fumbles for the bottle, and when W’Kabi swipes halfheartedly at it a couple of minutes later, refuses to surrender it.

“I don’t gotta do it back, do I?” Erik asks, just as W’Kabi has begun to think he can safely forget the entire conversation. “Just saying, it’s bad enough it happens at all, but if he’s, like, expecting _me_ to-”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” W’Kabi says plaintively. His head is beginning to ache- a familiar condition in Erik’s company.

“We haven’t talked ‘bout it _enough_.” Erik’s finger jabs hard into his arm, and W’Kabi slaps his hand away without looking. “How many’ve you kissed, huh? If this is just T’Challa being weird and all that, that means that you-”

“Shut up,” W’Kabi says automatically. Erik’s voice rattles in his head, bouncing sluggishly around his skull, and he frowns, digging the heel of his palm into his right eye. “Say it again, slower.”

“ _Men_ , W’Kabi, how many‘ve you kissed?” Erik sounds nearly accusatory, which W’Kabi suspects is partly due to the alcohol, and the rest to his personality. “Five? Ten?” He takes a drink, and then another. “Twenty-five? ‘M I gettin’ hot or cold yet, help a brother out.”

“I’ll never tell.” W’Kabi leans back heavily against the boulder behind them, the wind at their backs and whistling overhead. The world spins a little less wildly, and he closes his eyes, willing himself to steady.

“C’mon, man.” Bast, but his wheedling is unnaturally like T’Challa’s, though much less convincingly. Something about the inflection, the edge of a smirk in even so short a word. “We’re friends.”

“There is not enough whiskey in the world.” Friends. As if a man like Erik could have something so simple, so complicated.

“Nah, you’ll tell me,” Erik says, so confidently that, for a moment, W’Kabi nearly believes him. “One day.”

“Unlikely.” He can no longer pretend he has not noticed Erik slumping closer, his head drooping until it’s tipped against W’Kabi’s shoulder. “Hey.”

“Damn,” Erik announces, “I’m drunk.” His head grows heavier by the second, his hair tickling the side of W’Kabi’s neck. If W’Kabi turns his head, his face would be pressed against it. He keeps his eyes carefully forward, and concentrates on trying to keep his vision from tilting.

“Get up,” he says. “We can’t sleep out here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Erik mumbles. His cheek slides against W’Kabi’s shoulder, his stubble catching at the fabric of W’Kabi’s blanket. “Ain’t the worst place I’ve slept.” And just like that, he goes silent, his breathing slow and heavy against W’Kabi’s arm.

“Erik,” W’Kabi says, after a moment, then sighs when there is no response. “Idiot.” The wind is beginning to pick up, cold and stinging against his face, and he lowers his chin, burrowing into the shelter of his blanket. Beside him, Erik twitches, and W’Kabi heaves a sigh before lifting the edge of the blanket, unwrapping just enough to throw the end of it over Erik’s legs. There are fences to repair in the morning, and Erik is no good to him sick in bed.

Erik doesn’t stir.

“I know you’re awake,” W’Kabi says evenly. “You blinked.”

A moment of silence. “Did not.” Another moment. “Shit.”

W’Kabi has often wondered if he prefers Erik’s company during these nights spent drunkenly on the hilltops because Erik, when drunk, is a distinctly more tolerable brand of himself. He’s warm, at least, pressed against W’Kabi’s side, and this is not the worst place he has slept, either.

“Never mind,” W’Kabi says. His stomach burns pleasantly, a haze already beginning to creep around the edges of his consciousness. He draws his knees to his chest, feels Erik grunt and shift closer as he moves, and he closes his eyes.


End file.
